Chapter 40
Reed
It’s ten at night on December thirty-first, and I’m sitting alone in my living room with a rocks glass of scotch and a skein of yarn, struggling to make my clumsy fingers move in the right ways to form a scarf.
I brought the knitting supplies from my office back to the penthouse. I no longer needed them at work, where I already had plenty to do to occupy myself. After Olivia left, I started to need the distractions at home more than anywhere else.
I’ve been struggling. The past few days have been among the most miserable of my life.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t wrap my head around what happened. I don’t even understand it, not fully. I’m sure I could ask my father for the details, but I’m not sure he’d tell me the truth—and even if he would, I’m not sure I want to hear it.
The bottom line is, this fucking sucks, and there’s no way around it. I just have to put my head down and make it through.
Outside, my view over the city skyline gives me a good vantage point on the tiny, distant fireworks across the river. They shoot up into the air sporadically and shower sparkles back down to the earth.
Simple, small fireworks, being set off a little prematurely. Nothing like the big display that I’ll inevitably see from my apartment, when it happens. There are too many windows to avoid it.
And I’ll be watching it alone.
I take a gulp of the scotch, then turn my attention back to my ill-formed scarf. This must be the first New Year’s Eve in my entire life where I haven’t done anything. I just don’t feel up to it. I’m not sure where I would go, and all of the usual plans seem hollow and unappealing.
On the coffee table, my phone vibrates. I pick it up; it’s Shane. He’s been calling every day since Olivia left, just to check on me.
In some ways, it feels nice—I think we’re closer now than we’ve ever been in the past. I couldn’t imagine Shane doing this a year ago, let alone two. But here we are.
I answer the call. “Hello?”
“Hey, what are you up to, man?” Shane’s voice is slow, cautious.
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, ‘nothing?’ It’s New Year’s Eve. Shouldn’t you be out?”
I breathe out quietly, pinching a fraying piece of yarn on the scarf. “Out where?”
“I don’t know. At the club. At a party. I’m sure you got a dozen invites.”
He’s right; I did. I ignored each and every one of them. I’ve ignored multiple calls from several celebrities.
“Come on, Reed,” Shane sighs. “Let’s do something. It’s New Year’s Eve. Thought that was your favorite holiday.”
“It used to be,” I say.
“Please come out. I don’t want you to be alone.”
I frown. “What if I want to be left alone? You ever think of that? Maybe I’m staying in because I’m enjoying my own company, for once.” It was supposed to be a joke, but the words fall flat. I don’t have the energy to crack jokes anymore.
“I’m headed to a party,” Shane says after a short pause. “You should come with me. It might be fun, and if it’s not, you can just head out. But you should at least try to make it to midnight.”
I deliberate for a few seconds, trying to decide whether or not this is worth it. On the one hand, I really, really don’t feel like I’m in my best party mood.
On the other… well, it’s Shane asking. If it was anyone else, I would probably have hung up on them by now. I know he’s just trying to look out for me. He’s worried.
“Fine,” I grumble. “I’ll come to the stupid party. Where am I even going?”
“The Waldorf. Dress nice, okay? I’ll see you at the entrance in half an hour.”
“Got it.” I hang up the call, then spend a few minutes sitting on the couch, staring down at the mess of yarn in my lap.
Slowly, as if it weighs a hundred pounds, I shift the knitting supplies off to the side and rise to my feet. I shuffle to my bedroom and force myself to get dressed.
Nothing interesting; no flair for tonight. Just a simple, black-tie suit. In the past, on New Year’s, I’ve worn ostentatious, ridiculous outfits—a gold, sequined suit jacket, or a goofy top hat.
Stuff like that was for fun, though, and for nights when I intended to draw attention to myself. The last thing I want, at the moment, is any attention.
There’s only one person in the world whose attention I crave, and she disappeared from my life.
I down the rest of my scotch before I head for the elevator. Normally, at this point in the night, I’d already be surrounded by friends, having the time of my life. Right now, though, I’m just miserable. I drag my feet as I wander out to the car and listlessly climb into the back seat.
At the party, I find a table in the back of the room to linger at. There’s a dance floor, and an open bar, but I don’t want to partake in either. Shane stands beside me, watching me with open concern.
“You sure you don’t want to make the rounds?” he asks. “You know a ton of people here. Don’t you want to chat?”
I shake my head mutely.
“You look miserable, man.”
I sigh. I am miserable. I feel dead inside. Lifeless.
But I can’t say that to Shane. I can’t admit it. Instead, I shrug and tell him, “I’m good. You don’t have to babysit me. You should go grab a drink—have a little fun.”
Shane’s brows knit together. He hovers by the table for a few seconds, clearly trying to gauge what I want; then he seems to guess that what I really want is to be left alone. He pats the table once and heads off in the direction of the bar.
As I stand in the corner of the rented ballroom, watching the dancers move together on the wooden floor and listening to snippets of the conversations around me, I feel lonelier than I’ve ever felt in my life.
Like I’m on a different planet from everyone else.
I close my eyes, wishing that, when I opened them, Olivia would be standing beside me, dressed in that stunning black gown and smiling happily. When I open them, the sting of disappointment is all too real.
I can’t keep doing this.
If I’m going to be alone, I’d rather be alone alone, not alone in a room full of people.
I’m about to do something about it—to head across the room, to tap Shane on the shoulder and let him know I’m going home early—when I hear a familiar voice from behind me.
“Hey, stranger.”
I turn my head, blinking in bemusement, and see a woman standing nearby. She’s wearing a red dress that cuts off at mid-thigh, with strappy silver heels that remind me of Olivia’s stilettos.
Other than the shoes, though, her resemblance to Olivia is minimal. She’s blonde, tall, and has a willowy figure. She gives me a grin, flashing artificially white teeth.
My heart sinks.
“Eleanor,” I say, dipping my head to her in what I hope is a neutral greeting.
It’s her—Eleanor Delton, the married woman who had an affair with me. The one I told Olivia about as we sat on the back patio of the villa in Turks and Caicos.
She bats her eyelashes at me and holds out a hand—I think she’s hoping I’ll take her fingers and kiss them. I don’t; I just stare at her.
“Long time no see, Reed,” she says.
I make a small sound of assent. “It has been.”
“Last time I saw you, it was under very different circumstances.”
Last time I saw her, she was naked in bed while I slipped out of her room. I’d just learned that she was married, and needed to get out of there as fast as I possibly could. I didn’t call. I didn’t give any indication that I wanted our relationship to continue. I felt like absolute shit.
“You know,” she says, stepping closer to my table, “I wouldn’t mind being in those circumstances again, if you’d be interested.”
I frown at her, my eyes narrowing, and lean away. “You know that’s not a good idea.”
“Why not?” She shrugs. “You enjoyed it. I enjoyed it. Some harmless fun, right?”
“I’m engaged,” I say.
The words leave my chest aching. The public still thinks Olivia and I are engaged; we were so close to the “wedding” date that PR decided it was best if we fade slowly into obscurity, rather than revealing our last-minute breakup.
But also, I’m not willing to let go of that engagement. I want to hold onto it for as long as I can—for as long as I have reason to.
“Oh, right.” She rolls her eyes, smiling. “Yes, I saw in Us Weekly.” She tips her head forward and laughs, flashing me a wink. “Come on, Reed. You know that doesn’t matter.”
I cast a nervous glance at the tables to either side of us. They’re far enough apart that I can’t hear their conversations, and the music is loud, so I don’t think she’s causing any trouble.
“People like us don’t marry for love,” Eleanor continues. “We marry for status, and we get our needs met on the side.”
She jerks her chin in the direction of a man across the room, holding a champagne flute and talking with a few people I don’t recognize. That’s her husband. I remember the first time I saw his photograph, and the sinking feeling I’d had in the pit of my stomach.
“He’s doing it, I can assure you,” she says, a sour note in her voice. “And it’s what I was doing with you, back when we were having our fun. You’ll learn that soon enough.”
That nauseous feeling that I remember—the uncomfortable, swooping sensation in my chest—is back in full force.
I hate the fake people in this world—in my world, in the world of wealth that I was raised in. I hate that I was brought up to think that behavior like this was normal.
My parents cheated on each other, too. Everyone did. They made no secret to hide it, not even from their children. As long as they kept up outward appearances to the public, nothing that happened in their private lives mattered.
I always found it repulsive. I slept around, of course, but sleeping around with people I barely knew was hardly the same as cheating on a partner. I never broke commitments because I never made them. It was simple.
The only person who ever made me feel better than the world I grew up in—the only person who ever made me feel human—was Olivia.
And she’s gone.
I clench my fists, riding out the momentary wave of hurt. Then I look Eleanor in the eye.